


Of Ghosts, Witches, and Beating Hearts

by FatefulAtropos



Category: Sleepy Hollow (1999)
Genre: Angels, Clairvoyance, F/M, Gen, Ghosts, Heaven, Hell, Limbo, Love, Redemption, Witchcraft, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 10:19:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7930951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FatefulAtropos/pseuds/FatefulAtropos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary Archer and the Hessian are sent back in the living world, with only one chance to be forgiven and avoid Hell. All they have is an enigmatic warning from an Angel about a massive twist in their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**_OF GHOSTS, WITCHES, AND BEATING HEARTS (A Sleepy Hollow fanfiction)_ **

**Prologue**

Thunder roared above, reverberating through the woods, up to the arches of the ever-gloomy sky of Sleepy Hollow. The bloody roots of the Tree of Dead opened wide, as if preparing a ghastly embrace for the two of them and the giant black steed Daredevil.  
Mary Archer, widow Van Tassel, couldn't figure out what was throbbing more painfully: the back of her head, her heart or her lips, bleeding profusely after having almost been ripped off by that demon.  
She was so close. So damn close! Just a second more, and a lifetime of sorrow, rancor, and sheer hatred would have been finally sated by a best-served-cold revenge.  
But destiny had other plans for her, she realized while grabbing on to the Hessian Horseman to avoid falling off the horse. Again. And now, all she could think of was the horrible opening coming closer and closer in front of her, threatening an eternity of abuse by a sharp-toothed psychopath with excellent sword skills and a terrible attitude.  
The Hessian felt more powerful than ever; cutting off heads and drinking the fear of his victims was nothing compared to immortality. While dashing for the infernal Tree that had been the door to his home for the last twenty years, for the first time he felt completely free, and found himself enjoying his invulnerability.  
The witch that had been using him was screaming her bloody mouth off right next to him; she was like a white venomous flower speckled with the black of the coils on her dress and the red of her blood. So beautiful and so deadly. Oh, but she could do no more to him. Now it was his turn.  
The moment Daredevil jumped into the hellish roots, the Hessian was snapped out of his reverie by the most atrocious, biting, searing wave of pain he'd ever felt; it hit his whole body, but it definitely started and ended in his chest. The closest feeling he could compare it to was burning fire and stinging ice being shot together into him, running through his empty veins and making him shine with a blinding white light. This was all he saw and felt before the living world disappeared.  
Three young people were watching the incredible scene with a mixture of horror and awe: Ichabod Crane, a young New York City constable, Mary's stepdaughter Katrina Van Tassel, and 14-year-old orphan Jonathan Masbath Jr. The eerie adventure they had gone through was reaching its end at full gallop, on Daredevil's back, speeding towards the dark red jaws of that gnarled tree. As the black steed was mid-air between the ground of dead leaves and the horrible roots, a strong bolt of lightning seemed to crash on the demonic trio.  
The three young heroes could have sworn that they saw the Horseman and his horse become glowing skeletons of white light for a second, before switching back to black shadows of death and being swallowed by the Tree.  
And in a nightmarish childbirth going backwards, the creatures of Hell squeezed their way into the bloody womb.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

_New York City, November 1799_

“A... headless horseman, you say...”  
The Burgomaster and the High Constable exchanged a quick but meaningful glance. Constable Ichabod Crane was hopeless.  
Without a doubt, the young constable was smart and promising, and his accuracy and dedication to his job were praiseworthy, but his ideas were often insubstantial.  
The previous month he had heatedly protested against the methods of punishment, asserting they were “medieval” and randomly inflicted, and that crime solving required brains and scientific updating.  
In addition to utter annoyance at Crane's lack of respect towards law authorities, his superiors didn't have a clue on how to meet his requirements. New York was a city of sixty thousands souls, and its position, which favored both commercial and human exchanges with Europe, gave it the greatest economical and entrepreneurial potential in the newly independent America. Everyday life was increasingly chaotic, and the issues to follow were many. The more the people, the more the crimes. How could they possibly apply the highest scientific techniques to unmask and catch every single thief and pickpocket?  
Yet, they had to admit that Crane did have a point; so, in order to both let him play scientist and at the same time put him to the test, they had assigned him that damn case of decapitations in Sleepy Hollow, up in the Hudson Highlands.  
And the fellow came back looking like another person. First of all, the ever-solitary Ichabod Crane wasn't alone: he was accompanied by a fair young lady and a teenage boy, both former dwellers of Sleepy Hollow, and both orphaned in the carnage that took place in that cursed village of superstitious knuckleheads. The two unfortunate youngsters were now sitting beside Crane in the City Courthouse, ready and willing to back him up as witnesses.  
Secondly, he had in his eyes a strange confidence, as if a black stain had been erased from his thoughts.  
And now, the young Crane was diligently complying with his duties and presenting an accurate report of the events occurred in the Hollow.  
Most of which surpassed the limits of absurdity.  
It seemed like Ichabod Crane's inflexible rational self had been given a violent shake, considering what he was talking about. And while talking, he sketched. He had asked for large format paper sheets and started sketching on one.  
“Precisely, sir. The perpetrator of the murders. A horrific apparition clad in black, speeding on a black horse, cutting off heads with surgical precision, and leaving a cauterized wound on the necks. As if the blade of his sword was red hot.”  
Ichabod showed his superiors the first sketch, which portrayed a demonic headless creature riding a black horse, sword in his hand and cloak waving behind him like creepy black jagged wings.  
The Burgomaster examined the sketch, and sighed, deeply perplexed. Then he addressed Ichabod in a harsh tone.  
“Are you mocking me with this nonsense, Crane? I expected you to put to use your progressive ideas in crime solving and demonstrate something real and factual to that God-fearing community. No offense meant,” he added politely, looking at Katrina and Jonathan.  
“I reacted more or less in the same way upon my arrival in the Hollow, sir,” Ichabod said in a kind but firm voice. “Until I saw the Horseman myself... chopping off the head of a Magistrate, a few feet away from me.” Ichabod's deep dark eyes pierced right through the Burgomaster's skeptical ones. He could have sworn he saw the tiniest glint of uneasiness in the old man's austere face.  
“However,” Ichabod continued theatrically, “as I had foreseen in the very first place, the instigator was someone of flesh and blood. This intuition became a certainty after having more than once noticed that the Horseman did not kill randomly, unless openly challenged. The victims were carefully chosen.”  
Ichabod sat down and prepared a second sheet for a new sketch, while going on with the report.  
“A link with each victim was what allowed me to get to my conclusions. It was a murder plot aimed at the conquest of a conspicuous inheritance; consequently, it consisted in the elimination of each heir, heir apparent, and witness that stood between the killer and the treasure. The four notables were involved, and covered the culprit until fear gave them away... to their death. But it is not the Horseman I'm referring to: I have found myself face to face with that creature, and I have survived.”  
“Can you produce a proof of such plot? A last will, a certificate?” asked the High Constable.  
Ichabod stopped sketching, and thought of that sad day when Katrina had burned the precious documents to save her father. How wrong had they been. He felt her sighing with guilt next to him. He squeezed her hand.  
“I'm afraid I cannot, sir. The documents I had collected went on fire inside a windmill, during a desperate attempt to save ourselves from the two murderers. Miss Katrina Van Tassel and young Jonathan Masbath, here with me today, can witness everything, as they have bravely helped me all along, jeopardizing their own lives.”  
The High Constable let out an accusatory snort. “Go on.”  
“What's worst in all this dark issue, is that these innocent people sitting before your eyes had the killer in person, the instigator of all those murders, into their very same house.”  
The Burgomaster and the High Constable leaned forward, their attention at its peak.  
Ichabod clenched his jaws, furious at the memories. He sketched faster and with more vigor. When he was done, he showed his second sketch.  
The two law authorities stared at the portrait of a gorgeous blonde woman in her late twenties. In the picture, there was nothing that indicated a lunatic, except for a skull with pointed teeth in her hands.  
“Mary Archer, former widow of Baltus van Tassel. Thus, Miss Katrina's stepmother.” The superiors stared at Ichabod with eyes wide open. No matter how unlikely, the issue was clearly captivating. After a pause, Ichabod continued. “The lady turned out to be an expert practitioner of sorcery. As just a child, her family was evicted and excluded from the Sleepy Hollow community, so she planned revenge with supernatural help.”  
Ichabod took a third sheet, and quickly sketched another face.  
“Orphaned and starving, in the winter of 1779 the two young Archer girls crossed the path of a Hessian mercenary who had become notorious for his unadulterated ferocity. His favorite kind of execution seemed to be decapitation, and he could master sword and axe like nobody else.”  
When Ichabod showed his last sketch, the Burgomaster flinched. This one portrayed a deadly pale man, maybe in his mid thirties, with messy jet black hair standing up on his head, and bright, wild eyes. But the real terrifying feature was his mouth, from which two rows of pointed teeth peeked out. A shark's jaws.  
“I... I think I remember this man...” The Burgomaster said, almost to himself.  
“It is possible,” Ichabod said. “As I said, in the Seventies he was quite notorious in the New York area and its surroundings. Mary Archer, who could have been no more than six years old, saw the Hessian's own decapitation and burial by the hands of American revolutionaries. Knowing where to dig, she stole the corpse's severed head and made a pact with Lucifer. As she grew up, she acquired the powers of witchcraft to bring the headless corpse back to life, and achieve her revenge.”  
“Constable Crane,” the Burgomaster said, looking straight into Ichabod's eyes. “Do you really believe what you are saying? Are you really certain that the assassin was a ghost called to life by a witch? I thought you were a man of science.”  
At these words, the High Constable sneered. But Ichabod looked back at them defiantly.  
“Gentlemen. We all know that this court has tried and condemned a number of so-called witches, wizards and sorcerers. I am still a firm believer in science and reason, but I also believe in what I see. And I saw this Headless Horseman, sirs. I _fought_ with him. I was able to portray his face because I saw its flesh restoring on the skull, vein by vein, muscle by muscle. I saw him come out of the bleeding roots of a huge dead tree, which I ascertained being a gateway to another dimension. And in the end, I saw him disappear with lady Archer in the same gateway, after the spell was broken.”  
After a pause of skeptical silence, Katrina suddenly intervened, standing up.  
“Pardon my intrusion, gentlemen. I know I am speaking without being questioned, but as a witness, what I have to say may be of great importance to this Court. I pledge you my word that Constable Ichabod Crane has carried out his investigation without ever, _ever_ , failing his criteria of rationality. Even after he saw the Headless Horseman with his own eyes, he has never let his mind be deranged by the existence of a spiritual world. Because a spiritual world exists, sirs. It can manifest itself in our living world if a soul is restless and if a door is opened, which is basically what happened in the Hollow. I am aware that this sounds unbelievable, or even blasphemous, to you. But I can assure you that this underworld has its laws and criteria, too. And Ichabod understood it and confronted it, risking his own life, with a courage that is seldom seen around. Believe me, sirs, that having Ichabod Crane working at your service is a privilege you should never underestimate.”  
The two older men were very impressed by the girl's boldness and honesty. They knew that there were some wealthy families in Sleepy Hollow, and the girl was clearly well-bred and educated, but they usually expected anyone coming from such a backward place, rich or poor, to be essentially not much more than a churl.  
Miss Katrina was nothing like that. Definitely.  
The Burgomaster nodded and half smiled at Katrina. “Thank you, Miss Van Tassel,” he said politely. Then he went back to examining the three sketches made by Ichabod. A former war butcher turned to ghost and mastered by a vengeful witch. Isn't this a fantastic story.  
“You said the three of you saw the two murderers disappear completely... into a tree that spilled blood, right?”  
They nodded.  
“And you are sure that the... spell has been unequivocally broken...”  
“Yes, sir,” Jonathan said, with a small bow of his head. “The Horseman was given his head back by Constable Crane himself. That was all that kept him under the power of lady Archer.”  
The Burgomaster looked outside, at the snowflakes, thinking about the “spiritual world”. Then he sighed, and looked back at the three youngsters.  
“Alright. You saw them disappear in a gateway to some parallel dimension. At this point, there would actually be no reason to pursue this case anymore, as it appears to have been solved. Yet, according to the events you have related, the murderers you have dealt with are apparently very cunning and dangerous people, and the circumstances in which they have disappeared are – you understand – quite absurd and unbelievable: after all, nothing assures us that what was able to go into that... other world, or whatever it is, cannot come out again. Therefore, I am determined to take the necessary precautions: an open-ended bounty on the Hessian and the Archer woman. 4000 dollars, no more. Time passes, people forget. We are in an ever-growing city, and this remains a dark story from an isolated village. With this, I hope you will feel better. Now, back to the real world, Constable Crane. The session is closed.”


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

A violent spray of icy water thrown into her face woke her up.  
Mary panted, tasting blood in her mouth, and realized that not only she ached even in places of her body she didn't know were there, but also that she couldn't move properly.  
Her sight was heavily blurred, but, striving to turn her head and look around, she slowly started to make out the surroundings.  
The arch above her, if she could call it a sky, was similar to the misty sky in the Hollow, but it had an ugly reddish hue. A huge, glowing scythe was hanging above, the color of burning metal; she realized it was some sick version of a celestial sphere, but she couldn't tell whether it was meant to be a moon, a sun, or some other star.  
She recognized the dark, deformed branches of a familiar gnarled tree towering upside down above her. The Tree of the Dead. And she was lying at its feet, propped against it in an uncomfortable slumped position. She was still in the Hollow then! But she soon realized that something wasn't quite right.  
Actually, nothing was right at all.  
She spotted the sinister shapes of other twisted trees. A wood. Then she heard a horrible, deafening noise, that sounded almost like the unpleasant squawk of a carrion crow. Almost. Before she could wonder what in the world could it be, her heart felt like stopping in her chest as she saw a gigantic, winged creature fly above her and perch on the Tree, just a few feet away from her.  
Only upon seeing the thing's features, Mary found her voice to scream in utter horror. The creature had huge black wings made of irregular, jagged feathers, that looked like nothing soft and light; but what made Mary scream was the fact that it had a human female body, naked except for a black torn rag covering her lower abdomen, and sitting on the branch in an ungraceful fashion that reminded something between a buzzard and a prostitute. The skin had the pale, sick yellowish color of fresh corpses; both the hands and the feet had long, curved digits that gradually ended in black claws. Black was also her long wild hair, the tip of her hooked nose, her lips, and the circles around her fiery red eyes, which were staring down at Mary in a mix of lust and amusement.  
“What a fair creature, ja?” A deep, raspy masculine voice came from somewhere near her.  
The sentence was uttered in a heavily-accented English. The W was a V, and the R's were guttural. German. Right on cue, a black mess of spiky hair appeared before Mary's eyes, then an angular pale face, electric blue eyes and the smile of a wild animal followed.  
Her former Dark Avenger, now her Dark Torturer.  
And he wasn't alone. More winged creatures, males and females, appeared behind him, some flying, some walking like dinosaurs, all laughing and squawking, sounds that had absolutely nothing human, and neither animal. Demons. Some circled around her, some others joined their companion on the tree branches, like a grotesque audience ready for a disgusting freak show.  
Mary sent signals to her aching body and mustered all the strength left into her to try and move. With a little good luck she would have been able to crawl away from that nightmare. In a second, she remembered all the times in her life in which she had been sick: fever, gastric troubles, migraine, pneumonia, chest-tearing cough... They all were a caress compared to how she was feeling now.  
She noticed that most of the pain was coming from her left arm. She felt like it had been stretched to unnatural length, pulling hard at her flesh and muscles, and she thought the bones would soon give way and crack, ripping off veins and sinews like harp strings being cut and curling back to uselessness in opposite directions. Slowly, so that the pain would be unbearable.  
It took her a good amount of courage to look at her arm, and even more in finding out that her hand was stuck into the bleeding roots of the Tree; they looked like rough-skinned snakes gnawing up to the half of her forearm. Whimpering, she tried to tug her arm and break free, but each tug sent a surge of pain all over her body; as she couldn't feel her hand, she began thinking that it may not even be there anymore.  
“Don't worry, doll. Your hand is still there, on the other side,” the Hessian said, as if reading her thoughts. “By the way, your kiss is hot, really.”  
Supported by the demons' horrific cheering, he started walking around her, like a panther around a dying prey. His gloved hand stroked her neck, then traveled down to her chest, her cleavage, her stomach. There was no trace of sweetness in his touch. Then, in a lightning quick gesture he drew his sword. Upon hearing the shing sound of the blade slicing the air, Mary winced, almost sure that this time the deadly blow was for her head.  
“If you want so bad to break free, I can help,” the Hessian said, amused by her fear.  
As she felt the blade touch her forearm, she screamed. “No! Don't you DARE, you beast!”  
The Hessian laughed, the strange, metallic cackle of someone who didn't use to laugh a lot in his life. Unless out of pure evilness, perhaps. The demons laughed with him, their awful voices echoing eerily.  
He ran his sword along her neck, teasing her, then leaned forward to her face, his nose touching her cheek. The threatening blade kept her still.  
“Why shouldn't I cut your head slowly, sawing your neck?” he growled, lustful. “After all, I died because of you, evil little pest.”  
“Like you had a chance! Both the sides of the Atlantic wanted you dead! And you call _me_ evil!” Mary panted angrily.  
The Hessian glared at her. “You could have hidden me instead of snapping that branch! I could have helped you and your sister with those abusive bastards of the Van Garretts!”  
Mary was about to yell back at him, but his words froze her. Her angry face suddenly turned into the face of a scared child, and she felt tears stinging her eyes. “How do you know?” she breathed.  
The demons had stopped cackling, but stood there circling her and the Horseman, who slowly removed his sword from her neck.  
The first female demon that came to her cut in from her branch. “This is Hell, Mary,” she said. It was a distorted chorus of sultry, vibrating feminine voices coming together from the same throat. “We know what happened. We know that after your papa died, old Peter Van Garrett raped your mom over and over again in exchange for food, and he even tried to put the moves on you. We know how sick the old pig was. And those puritan Van Tassels were not that nice either, as they didn't show any mercy to two innocent kids. But you've been smart, little Mary. You've been sly.” The last word came out as a long, hoarse breath.  
With tears streaming down her face, Mary looked up at the Hessian, rage in her eyes. “After all the humiliation and mistreatment I had to endure as only a child, did you expect me to trust another adult? And not just any adult! A foreigner – a Hessian soldier! And the most notorious of them! What the hell was I supposed to do?!”  
He quickly shot the blade under her chin, menacingly. “I was just a stranger in a strange land. I had nothing to do with that.”  
Mary was sure that this time he would finally cut her head off. They stared at each other defiantly, his glowing blue eyes piercing into her pastel blue ones.  
Suddenly, that gloomy world went white. A bell tolled. A pure white ray of light, made of the finest stardust, poured into Hell.  
The demons started to act nervous, as if they were scared but too curious to flee. Mary used her free hand to shield her eyes, while the Hessian stared right into it, hypnotized.  
From that dazzling light, another winged creature could be seen flying down towards them, but this one had a different, harmonious shape. As it got closer, it turned out to be a white-clad Angel. It was neither male nor female, but its beauty was way superior to the most beautiful features of both sexes. The demons made way as it landed, as light as a feather. It floated right in front of the Hessian, who stared at it in amazement.  
“Gott im Himmel!”, said the Horseman with a faint voice.  
“Almost. I am just a messenger,” the Angel replied, smiling kindly. As it spoke, it was like a million tiny bells tinkling a melody.  
It placed a pristine hand on the Hessian's chest, and even with his armor he could feel the silky touch... Along with something else, palpitating delicately but relentlessly.  
“Listen to it...” the Angel said, its voice sweet and serious. “It is your heartbeat, Christoph Schiller. You have almost forgotten your own name: you were known as The Black Devil, and you were so eager to spread Hell on Earth. You even tried to turn yourself into a demonic creature. But my Master knows that it was the result of a life of sorrow, and in His never-ending mercy, sent the bolt of lightning that blew the life back into you, giving you a second chance. Thanks to Ichabod Crane, you are no longer a slave of witchcraft. Now, if a little wisdom is still left in your blackened heart, it is up to you to create stronger weapons than your sword and your axe, to support you in the upcoming continuation of your life.”  
As the Angel removed the hand from the Hessian's chest, both Mary and the audience of demons found themselves beholding a rather weird scene, to say the least. Seeing that grotesque, spiky-haired and wild-eyed hurricane of death scared like a puppy, with tears in his eyes and shaking as if he was freezing was not something to be seen every day.  
“Mary Archer,” she was snapped out as her name resounded like the toll of a golden bell; the Angel gracefully approached her, leaned over and wiped away her tears, its hand a feathery handkerchief on her cheeks in jarring contrast with her aching body. “Your soul belongs to Satan, by your own choice. You are now experiencing suffering: as soon as the Dark Sootheress comes for you, an eternity of this indescribable pain awaits you, due to your precocious pact with Lucifer. However, the supreme gift of Life has not left you, not yet. You are still young, and you have plenty of time. But your sins are great, like Chris's ones, and great needs to be the twisting in the course of your life. It will not be easy at all, but you know well that the most beautiful of diamonds is found buried and encrusted into the roughest stone. It is this difficult course, or Hell eternal.”  
As soon as these words were uttered, the Angel glowed and its shape blurred, fading to white; before unconsciousness, the last thing Mary and Christoph knew was the blinding, starry white light from Heaven, that shone swallowing Hell, harpies and demons.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Daredevil nudged insistently at Chris's head, snorting in disapproval. The beautiful black steed was desperately trying to wake up his master, who seemed to be enjoying unconsciousness a little too much, given the peaceful expression replacing his usual scowl.  
Finally the horse seemed to lose it, and slammed his massive snout against Chris's cheek: the blow almost corresponded to a well-delivered punch in the face, so Chris opened his eyes in confusion, and the first thing he met was his horse's gaze.  
“Hey,” he slurred. “Last time it was you on the ground and me stroking you. Gently.”  
As he sat up, he found that his body was slightly weak, and his head – his newly found head – was spinning. That was strange, given that he was a ghost. A ghost?  
He took a look around: the Tree was there... The sky was lead gray... The air was biting cold... and everything around seemed to shout at him that he was in the Western Woods of Sleepy Hollow.  
In a flash, all that had just happened rushed back to his memory: his restored head, his return to Hell, his heart beating again, the Angel and its arcane words, Mary Archer. Mary Archer... Where was that crafty little devil?  
He immediately spotted her near the roots, bent over something and hastily moving her arms. As she heard him get up, she turned to him.  
“Slept well, fearsome Hessian Horseman? You looked like a baby,” she chirped with her familiar sarcasm, and quickly got back to what she was doing.  
Chris approached her, and noticed a dark blue velvet bag trimmed with a thick golden strip laying open near her thigh; Mary was digging a hole in the ground using a very small shovel. When the blade hit something hard, she whispered an excited “Yes!” and put the shovel aside. She stuck both her hands in the hole and dug out a coffer.  
“Merry Christmas, little Mary,” she smiled to herself, opening the coffer and revealing a conspicuous treasure: gold coins, jewels, gems and a stack of paper sheets.  
“What are you supposed to do with that? If you recall that Angel, you may want to keep your greed at bay,” Chris told her.  
Mary got up and glared at him. “Don't play prig with me, Black Devil. You're in no position to do that. Do you think this is all of the Van Tassel legacy? It's just a tiny part, added to little things I took from 'respectable' people who stole them in turn. Just in case my spell failed or my plans went wrong. And for your information,” she went on, trying in vain to lift the heavy coffer. “I'm so going to need this to start over, considering that I have no clue about what to do.”  
Seeing that she would never make it and move that coffer, and that her body was still sore from her recent journey to Hell, he rolled his eyes, lifted the coffer up without much effort and tied it on Daredevil's back.  
“Let me help you with this,” he mumbled, “you won't go far by yourself. By the way, your home is empty. While you were unconscious in Hell, Ichabod Crane, Katrina and the Masbath kid left and moved to the City.”  
“How long was I unconscious then?”  
“Three Earth days, although it felt like a few hours to you. Time is irregular in Hell.”  
Mary was dazed. She wasn't sure if she could trust him, considering who he was. Yet, at the moment they were both in the same incredible situation, and neither of them was willing to ruin their new chance of life by screwing with each other; so, she decided that the hateful sass she had been wearing as a protective shield against a cruel world would have led her to nowhere, and that she'd better start with the right foot and use some manners.  
“I... I guess I could use some help,” she sighed. “Thank you, Horseman.”  
“My name is Chris, not Hessian, and neither Horseman,” he said, helping her on Daredevil's back.

***

They rode in silence. Chris held Mary by her curvy, corset-clad waist, and he tried hard not to move his fingers. Tired of keeping her hands on her lap, Mary started stroking Daredevil's jet black mane.  
“I'm sorry for all this weight, sweetie,” she said to the horse. Then she turned to Chris. “Your horse is so beautiful. I already miss my mare.”  
“Oh, so there _is_ a little excuse for a heart somewhere into you!” he said, amused.  
“Look who's talking. I have feelings for the flora and the fauna, because they're pure, untainted,” she told him, serious.  
He had to admit he was stunned by her words. And also a little embittered: if things had gone differently, she could have been some sort of a white witch, like Katrina.  
They reached the base of the small hill from where the Van Tassel manor watched the Hollow. To her relief, she noticed that the stables were empty and the house was dark, except for the night watchman's hut. Usually, even during the night, the manor was never completely dark, as there was always a candle flickering here and there.  
“Alright,” she whispered, then rummaged into her velvet bag and gave him a key. “You'd better get rid of that tattered cloak. While I talk to the watchman, you get in. I'll tell him we're the former Lady's relatives, who came to get her stuff.”  
“Why do I have to get in? It's your house.”  
“You must be crazy, wandering around the Hollow after all that's happened. You're no ghost anymore, fellow. You could be shot to death. I'll give you a room in the manor. We need to sleep on our decisions.”  
Her resourcefulness would never cease to surprise him.  
And while Chris sneaked into the stables and waited for her near the door, she went to talk to the watchman passing off as the late Lady Van Tassel's sorrowful twin sister, Miranda Preston, come with her... er... husband to mourn her beloved sister and collect her belongings. The man obviously bought every word of her little story and readily accepted the coins she offered him.  
The manor looked so weird without people inside; it was freezing and somber. Mary went to have a look around the whole house, lighting candles on the way. She noticed that only Katrina's things were missing, while the rest of the house was still as she had left it; they must have packed and run away from the cursed Hollow without thinking twice. Good.  
Downstairs, Chris had lighted a big fire; she boiled water for much needed baths, both for herself and for him. Luckily the manor had separate bathrooms. She burned scented herbs and perfumed the tubs with flower petals, then showed Chris his room and told him to feel free to look around for clean garments.  
When he was alone, Chris got rid of his weapons, gloves, breastplate, boots, and clothes, and stared at his deadly pale body. It was an artwork of scars that had originally been blessed with health, then wounded, stabbed, beheaded, half-resurrected, put back together and resurrected anew; a deep gash in his side stood out, and he remembered the searing pain of torn flesh and broken ribs. In a mirror, he looked at his restored face, whose freakish features made him seem ageless, despite everything: on his smooth white skin facial hair never grew, but the weird, raven black mane on his head made up for it; he noticed that his eyes had regained their former deep sea blue, but what really reminded him of the reality of his uncanny past was the thick scar embossed on his neck. He sighed and slipped into the tub, immersing his head underwater in an attempt to wash everything away.  
In the ladies' bathroom, Mary undressed before the large mirror. She noticed with relief that her black-coiled dress – one of her favorites – was not ruined beyond repair. On the other hand, her body was a mess of bruises; she saw that when Chris had kissed her with the gentleness of a shark, his damn teeth had cut a small gash on both her lips, which now looked a bit swollen, while her left forearm had a massive, blackish bruise. She cured the wounds with a special balm, slipped into the tub, and sank her hair into the pleasing warmth, trying to soothe her body and her confused, scared mind.  
After a good hour, they met in the kitchen and fixed a quick dinner. Luckily there was a nice amount of food left. He cast furtive glances at Mary: those grand, puffy gowns she used to wear had finally been replaced by a simple, light green silk dressing gown, and her sophisticated hairdo had been turned into a loose braid. No one, in a million years, could have told she was an evil, vengeful witch: she looked much younger, her expression had lost its usual haughtiness, and Chris couldn't help but remember that pink-dressed little girl he met in those fateful woods.  
She put a nice glass of brandy before him. “Tell me, do you by any chance have a soft spot for black?” she said. This time, instead of the usual spiteful sarcasm, her tone carried something very similar to genuine congeniality.  
“Is it so obvious?” he said, smiling. Out of all the men's clothes stored in the manor's rich wardrobes – which included the garments of the late Baltus, plus the clothing he inherited from Peter and Dirk Van Garrett – he had managed to pick black trousers and a black shirt; nevertheless, it was odd to see him without his trademark uniform. Black and dark colors surely suited him the most, but whatever he wore, he would always look peculiar.  
They sat there, their minds full of unanswered questions, their hearts full of anguish, their souls full of fear. Until sleepiness got the best of them, and they headed for their respective rooms.

***

After some hours of slightly disturbed sleep, Chris slowly opened his eyes. The room was bathed in milky moonlight, and everything was perfectly still and peaceful, like a storybook illustration.  
Except for the white, ghostly figure standing beside his bed, staring down at him.  
Fully awoken, he jumped and his hand quickly reached under the pillow, drawing a dagger.  
“Gah! Mary!... You almost gave me a heart attack,” he said out of breath, putting the dagger away.  
Wrapped only in a white sheet, her ashen hair loose, and her features even paler in the moonlight, Mary looked ethereal. The expression in her eyes was a strange mix of lust and unspeakable sorrow.  
“You... alright?” he stammered, confused and – he had to admit – excited.  
She didn't reply. Instead, she let the sheet fall down, revealing herself fully, and slowly climbed on top of him.  
At the sight and touch of such a strange, otherworldly, beautiful woman, Chris was obviously more than ready, although still in utter shock.  
It was rough. Passionate. Desperate. Neither of them could believe it was really happening.  
When they were done, after a pause to regain her breath and consciousness, Mary quickly climbed off, grabbed the sheet to cover herself and walked to the door.  
“Are you leaving?” he said, still panting a little.  
She turned back to look at him, with tears in her eyes.  
“Forgive me,” she whispered. Then left, under the eyes of a very puzzled Hessian.  
He let himself fall back on his pillows, and sighed. “Frauen! Riddles wrapped in mystery!”


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Chris awoke in the pale, misty sunlight that was so recurring in Sleepy Hollow. That place seemed to have a permanent thick veil on it. Both literally and figuratively.  
He threw a nice spray of cool scented water on his face and body to fully wake up his limbs, then wore his shirt and pants, having slept only in his underwear and socks, burying himself under the heavy covers. The night had been warm, and at some point even hot...  
Did they really do it?  
The Hessian was clueless about how to act. He felt somewhat tense and uneasy... And not because he regretted it or didn't like it – quite the opposite! – but because he had no idea about how Mary would behave. He had slept with some women in his previous life, but until last night he had never seen such a passion and sorrow together. He had felt them being radiated from Mary's flesh while his hands were on her; it had been like they were trying to instill new life into each other, after all they had been through.  
A sweet smell awoke the neurons in his stomach, and he went downstairs.  
Mary had just finished fixing a delicious breakfast. Against his expectations, she smiled at him.  
“Good morning. Hope you slept well.” Chris felt a tad relieved to see her in a good mood, in addition to her good looks. Despite her never-missing pallor, she looked refreshed; her hair was loose except for a simple, large braid framing her head like a medieval crown. She wore a light gray dress with dark blue trimmings, but this one had a simpler, flatter skirt.  
Chris was about to be straightforward and tell her that he did sleep well, but it would've been better if she had stayed in bed with him. Instead, he simply replied that he did, thanks.  
“You look good this morning,” he said.  
“Oh, good to know. Because I have a million thoughts harassing my mind,” she said, sipping her tea.  
After finishing their breakfast in silence, Chris took a big breath and told her about his plans.  
“I have to go back to Hessen,” he said. “I thought about leaving today for New York, where I'll take the first ship to Europe.”  
This time, too, Mary went against his expectations. She nodded supportively.  
“That's the wisest thing to do for you,” she said. “But how do you know if your home, your friends, your relatives, are still there after twenty years?”  
“I don't know, in fact,” he replied. “When I left, I had my parents' house in Wiesbaden, and my father had some lands, but it wasn't me to take care of those things. They must think I'm dead, which is not far from the truth. So, nein. I don't know what I'll find. This is going to be some sort of adventure.” And here, he smiled like a teenage boy playing explorer.  
Mary admired how bravely he headed towards the unknown, without thinking too much about the consequences. He was a free spirit. She realized she didn't know anything about this man, who he really was and what his homeland was like... And it wasn't easy to define him: he had become notorious as a bloodthirsty psychopath and, at the same time, he was capable to act normally, unlike the crazy beast he was pictured like. She suspected that something bad had scarred his life, judging by this weird, split personality he had.  
But there was no time to wonder about things that weren't her business. She had to help him.  
“You're going to need some new documents and new clothes,” she said, standing up and ready to get busy. “You can take away all the men's things you like, I'm not going to need them.”  
“Great, thanks,” he said. “But... uh... how do I get new documents? All I have is my identity papers and some money from the English government, in a pocket hidden in Daredevil's saddle. Actually, it was strange to find out that stuff was still there...”  
Mary frowned a bit, thinking. Then, she looked up at him with a mischievous smile.  
“May I have a look at your papers?”

***

Mary sat at the library desk, pen in hand, surrounded by ink pot, sealing wax, stamps and lots of sheets. When Chris came back downstairs, Mary almost jumped in her chair. The legendary, super-tattered black and dark red uniform of the former Headless Horseman had been replaced by a brand new, black velvet frock coat trimmed in gold; of course, his boots, pants, shirt and vest were black too, but this time he looked different. Elegant. He had even made a poor attempt to comb his hair back.  
“Those Van Garretts dressed like two jesters,” he said, slightly annoyed. “I've even found a pink vest in there. I thought pink was for girls.”  
Mary was staring at him wide-eyed. “Well, hello... Master Vampire,” she said.  
Though illogical for the situation they were in, they both burst into laughter.   
“You do have a thing for black, dear Horseman,” she said, amused; then, she composed herself. “Anyway. First of all, your old papers and money were still there because, when you and Daredevil were brought back to life, your mortal remains have been completely restored, including uniform, weapons and saddle.”  
“Oh. Gut.”  
“Then, I have prepared new documents for you. An almost new identity. Have a seat, you're going to love this.”  
He quickly sat down at the desk, opposite her, his face a mask of curiosity.  
“Your name is still Christoph Schiller, but you are not you. You are your son. You don't expect to go back to Hesse after twenty years with no one noticing you haven't aged a day, do you? You were born here, in Sleepy Hollow, in 1776, which makes you even younger than me. Here's the certificate of birth,” she handed him a small paper. “Your mother's name is not fake. Chloe Van Winkle was a friend of my mother's, another poor outcast; we are pretending that the Hessian married her in secret. Here's the marriage paper. You have studied in New York with German teachers. But this is the dessert,” she said, opening a larger sheet. “A last will, in which the Hessian leaves everything he owns in Hesse – houses, lands, servants – to his son. With this, you can regain all that belonged to your family, no matter what happened.”  
This time, it was his turn to stare at her wide-eyed. She smiled, triumphant.  
“Oh, last but not least,” she added. “All these documents are signed by Philipse and Hardenbrook. I think I have done a good copying job. All you need now is a carriage.”  
“You really are a witch, Mary Archer,” he said, this time in admiration.

***

Later that day, a carriage arrived at the manor. While the coachman loaded Chris's stuff on and tied Daredevil to the carriage along with his two horses, Chris and Mary stood facing each other, uneasy. Their story had been positively weird: she had had him killed, she had made him a murdering ghost, but eventually here he was, alive again. They both had been given a second chance of life, and instead of killing each other, they had just started to know each other. Hell, they had even made love! And now, they knew they might never see each other again; any sane, rational person would gladly run away from such a grotesque fairytale, preferring the safety of a real, conventional world with real, sensible situations. But they went against any logic. Nothing was making sense, not even this awful feeling of loss they both felt.  
“Well, Chris... It's been brief but pleasant. I wish you the best for your journey back home,” she said honestly, looking at him in the eyes.  
He gently took her hands in his. The witch that had made so much to him. Evil and good together.  
“Come with me,” he blurted out. Then, in a more detached tone, “I mean... if you wish.”  
Mary was caught off guard. Go with him? To the other side of the world? And what the hell were those damn tears stinging her eyes for?  
“Oh, God... Chris, you've been nice to me since we came back from Hell, and I didn't deserve it... But coming to a totally different Country, without knowing anything about it... About you... After all, we are barely even acquainted... I... I need to think about it. I need to think about a lot of things about my own disaster of a life.”  
Chris wiped her tears away and tried to soothe her, despite his disappointment.  
“No no, don't cry. So out of character. I understand; but, we can still keep in touch, if you want.”  
“Of course I do. We are into this together.”  
“Then promise me that unless something bad happens, you stay here. As soon as I get home, I'll write you, so you'll know for sure where to reach me.”  
“Alright. I promise. Remember to write to Miranda Preston.”  
Chris held up her hands and kissed them. Once again, she took him by surprise and hugged him tight, like an old friend. He hugged her back and kissed her cheek.  
“Goodbye, little witch. Take care of yourself, and don't get into trouble while I'm gone.”  
“Goodbye, my Dark Avenger. I'll wait for your letter, and you'd better not disappoint me.”

***

_New York City Docks_

Ichabod Crane was having a quiet walk alone. Finally, his life was starting over, and though his rational mind had been permanently scarred by the events in the Hollow, that cursed place had given him two priceless presents that went by the names of Jonathan Masbath Jr. and Katrina Van Tassel.  
The constant presence of Jonathan by his side had shown Ichabod something he had never known and had never really believed into, something people referred to as friendship. That boy had come up to him spontaneously, the very day his father was killed and buried, and had offered Ichabod a valuable and totally free helping hand. Jonathan needed him as much as he needed Jonathan, who now had been officially employed as his assistant.  
And, above all, there was Katrina, the same girl that had kissed his cheek without knowing who he was and how he looked, that had saved him from death with those arcane powers of white magic Ichabod had made the mistake of dismissing as nonsense. And now, Ichabod thought again about that little book of benevolent spells she had given him on the night of his arrival in the Hollow; meanwhile, he fiddled with a small golden ring that had a tiny heart chiseled on. That evening, he would gather all his courage and propose to Katrina. Even if they had met just a week or so before, it was like they both had been waiting for each other for a lifetime; within the lapse of days, they had learned everything that had to be known about each other, including the darkest secrets; they had even proven themselves ready to save each other's life with their own. So, why wait any longer? He put the ring in a small heart-shaped box and pocketed it.   
As he lifted up his gaze, blood was suddenly drained from his face.  
Just some feet away from him, a black-dressed man with a black horse were walking towards the docks, where a large ship was sailing off to Europe in twenty minutes.  
The man was very elegant, but there was a familiar peculiarity to him, an unmistakable aura of darkness, of fierceness... of afterlife. Ichabod saw each movement as if time had begun running slow: the stranger turned towards the constable, and from under his large-brimmed black hat he pierced Ichabod's gaze with a pair of ocean blue eyes; a knowing smile bloomed on his deadly pale face, slightly baring the pointy ends of his sharp teeth.  
“Danke, Herr Crane.”  
Then, time resumed its normal flow. Horseman and horse boarded the ship.  
The German sentence was the last thing Ichabod heard, and understood, before passing out.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Ichabod had not told anyone about his encounter with the Hessian yet.  
Actually, he was struggling to make his eyes and brain come to an agreement between each other, and convince himself once and for all that the man he had seen _was_ the Hessian.  
But how could it be?  
That terrifying man was already dead when Ichabod had first seen him, headless; he was already dead when the three of them had seen him fasten his skull to his neck and watched his face slowly restore, layer by layer; and even when he was whole once again and disappeared into the Tree – to Hell, perhaps – he was dead. _Dead_.   
Ichabod had already had a hard time believing in his existence; when he had seen him and had been forced to accept the fact that a dead man was back from the grave, he had done his best to apply his method of reasoning anyway, with the certainty that even such an unlikely situation must have had its triggers, which, once understood, could have led to the consequences. It was quite obvious.  
And it had been exactly so.  
Even the uncanny world of spirit had its cycles, its causes and its effects. The basic difference with the living world was that the spiritual world had much, much more _possibilities_. The more the possibilities, the more the hypotheses. That was why it was so natural to say that 'everything could happen in that world': surely, the explorer of such a world had to be always prepared.  
So, Ichabod had done a clever detective work in Sleepy Hollow and he had been right: the ghost had not shown up cutting off heads without a reason; he had been summoned for a specific purpose, and the key to master him was the very location of intellect – his head. Once he had gotten his head back, his 'job' in the living world was over and he went back to Hell, or wherever he went, taking his summoner away with him.  
And here was where a number of question marks burned Ichabod's mind. If the Hessian's mission on Earth was over, what was he doing in flesh and blood and brand new outfit at the docks of New York?  
Before passing out, Ichabod had clearly heard the Hessian thank him, then he had seen him board the ship to Europe. Now, it was very likely that he had thanked Ichabod for having given him his head back, setting him free. You're most welcome. Especially as you were about to behead Katrina.  
Then, ghosts had access to the living world only through specific gateways that could be opened via spells of magic. So why in the world would a ghost board a ship? And above all, how and why had he come out of the Tree once again?  
The most logical explanation was that the ghost of the terrible German had been somehow called from the dead again by a living person, most probably for another mission. That would make him a very sought-after invincible avenger, just in case you hold a grudge against someone and you want to destroy their whole line of heirs without getting your pretty hands dirty with blood.  
Not impossible for an explanation... but too easy. Too hurried.  
After all, it is the damn spirit world we are dealing with, Constable Crane.  
But maybe... Instead of being called back... what if the Hessian was _sent_ back from the dead?

***

“It was him, Katrina. I'm sure of it as I'm sure I'm looking at you now.”  
Ichabod was sitting on the couch in the main room of his small apartment in Midtown New York. Katrina had just handed him a cup of relaxing infusion, and now she sat on an armchair facing him.  
A week had passed since the day Ichabod had run into the Hessian. But that day, he had forced himself to temporarily shoo away that episode and deal with a far more important task: proposing marriage to Katrina. It had taken a forceful pat of encouragement on his back from Jonathan, but finally he had managed to make his proposal and give her the ring; by the time he was done, his face had paled remarkably, but Katrina's warm kisses had quickly helped the color of life rush back to Ichabod's face. They got married soon after.  
However, the dark shade of concern that clouded the constable's eyes didn't escape Katrina; that night she went ahead and asked Ichabod what was tormenting him.  
And this time, it was Katrina's turn to go pale at the description of the Hessian.  
“I wonder what is still allowing him to walk on this Earth...” she said, almost to herself. “I thought he was at peace... so to speak.”  
“Such a black soul can never find peace.” Ichabod commented darkly.  
“You said he was boarding a vessel... Are you sure that vessel was going to Europe?”  
“Yes. I heard a quantity of languages and accents while walking by, and then I asked an officer.”  
“He's going back to Hesse. There's no other explanation. For what other reason would he travel to Europe?” said Jonathan, who was sitting on the couch next to Ichabod and enjoying a good cup of hot chocolate.   
“That is the point,” Ichabod said. “He's dead. His home should be the Netherworld, not Hesse anymore.”  
“The Netherworld has spat him back out again,” Jonathan said.  
“That's what I thought,” Ichabod finished his infusion and sank his face into his hands, tired and confused. “That man doesn't seem destined to die and stay dead. But why?”  
“The reasons could be many,” Katrina said. “Usually, when someone comes back, it's because their death was unfair and their soul did not accept it... or because they are summoned. Dead souls can appear in different ways: tangible, like the Horseman, or evanescent; they can bear the signs of death, like a wound or a mutilation, or appear serene and restored. It depends on how they want to be perceived. But, whatever the reason they come for and the form they assume, one thing is for sure: they must pass through a gateway. And someone with powers must help them. _Receive_ them.”

***

Later that night, Katrina slipped into the bed next to Ichabod, who buried his face in the curve of her neck.  
“I'm at a loss, my dear,” he muttered. “I have done my best to protect us, and here that fiend is, alive and well.”  
“Shhh. Stop tormenting yourself,” she whispered. “You forget the most important thing. If the Horseman had wanted to hurt you, he would have done it. And he didn't, because he has no point in doing that. He owes you, actually.”  
“Maybe he thanked me for having allowed him to spread terror once again... But it was the only way to save us.” Ichabod said, disheartened.  
“In any case, we had a bounty placed on them, remember? And... I'll check my book of spells for further protection. It worked in Sleepy Hollow.”  
Ichabod remembered the strange drawing Katrina had made under his bed, the drawing that had prevented Lady Van Tassel from unleashing the Horseman against him; after all, he was the unwelcome constable who had found out about the conspiracy. And he had foolishly believed that magical shield drawn in pink chalk was the Evil Eye. He had sworn to protect her always, but actually it was Katrina to have protected him from a world he still couldn't fully understand.  
Reassured, he finally smiled at her. With the grace of a cat, Katrina climbed on top of him and held his hands back. Ichabod suddenly felt himself go on fire.  
“Before you think me wicked, I am trying to make you happy, Constable Crane,” she purred sensually. “How can I make that gloomy look go away?”  
They kissed, and Katrina soothed him in the best way a wife can.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

_Wiesbaden, County of Nassau-Usingen, Hesse, Holy Roman Empire of Germanic Nations  
December 1799_

Chris had been standing completely still and barely breathing for ten good minutes outside the gates of the Schiller residence.  
His family house had not changed in all those years, except for the garden that looked somewhat neglected, even under the sprinkle of recent snow. That was strange, as he remembered his mother being very demanding about the aspect of the garden, regardless of the season.  
His mother... His father... How would they react in seeing him? Would he make it and pass off as their grandson? And, above all, were all of them still there?  
Daredevil, who craved hay and a good rest, gave him a push to snap him out of it.  
At that moment, a young man came to the gates. “May I help you, Herr?”  
Chris did not recognize him, of course. The youngster could have been no more than eighteen.  
“My name is Christoph Schiller. I am the Barons' grandson.”  
Upon hearing his name, the boy's face changed color and his eyes went wide.  
“Oh Gott sei Dank!” the boy exclaimed, opening the gates and bowing before Chris, who didn't like to be revered and gently pulled him up by the shoulders.  
“Who are you, kid?”  
Right on cue, a feminine voice called from the front door. “Who is it, Otto?”  
Chris's heart started to race as a short, chubby woman in her forties came closer to them. Her dark brown hair was tied in a bun, and her olive green eyes were lively and piercing. The lifelong self-neglect and hard work had not damaged her natural beauty. As she caught up with Otto and looked up at Chris, she stopped dead in her tracks.  
“Inga...” Chris breathed. He noticed that the woman had gone pale and started trembling, and he quickly composed himself. “Er, you must be Frau Inga Berger... I am Christoph's son. I have just arrived from America to meet my grandparents.”  
The woman, Inga, had been Chris's very first childhood friend, as she was born a couple of years before him, in that same house too. She was the daughter of Gudrun, the former housekeeper, but they had remained very close without ever giving a damn about their social differences. They knew each other like the back of their hands. Inga was tough, self-controlled, extremely efficient and trustworthy. Chris had seen her cry only twice in his life: the day he left for America, and now. He almost felt like crying himself upon seeing that stronghold of a woman aged and sobbing.  
“Come on, Frau, you make me feel bad if you cry...” he said, trying to calm her down.  
Inga held his face in her hands and hugged him tight. “Don't Frau me, urchin. You think I can't recognize you? Just tell me how can this be,” she told him among sobs.  
Urchin. She had called him that nickname since he was very little, due to his spiky black hair.  
Touched, Chris returned the hug, and whispered in her ear, “Shhh. If you let me in, I'll explain everything.”

***

The house was exactly as he remembered it. White walls, blood red curtains and dark Baroque furniture. The sofas and armchairs in the wide living room were of red damask, and the fireplaces were of ornate cast iron. The walls sported paintings and a remarkable exhibition of swords, Eastern European sabers, Asian katanas and Arab scimitars.  
His home. A home that suited him.  
“While you freshen yourself up, I'll make dinner,” Inga said. “The... Master should be here later tonight or tomorrow. He went out of town.”  
“You mean my father?”  
Fresh tears started to well up in Inga's eyes, and she looked away. “Follow me in the kitchen.”  
While Inga cooked, she told Chris the terrible tragedy that had erased that branch of the Schiller family from Wiesbaden.  
“Your parents died twelve years ago. They got sick and died in a few days. We never understood what it was. And you... You never came back. Your army reported you as missing, because none of them had seen you since Seventy-nine and your death was never confirmed. In the meantime, your parents got into trouble, and after their death, this house, the lands in the country, and all the workers – including me and my family – became property of Martin Bormann, the judge.”  
“Bormann!” Chris thundered. “Our own administrator!”  
“Yes,” Inga said, her face gloomy. “He played dirty, I'd bet my head. The Schillers had no heirs left, so it was an easy job for him to gain everything. And now, this house has become a brothel: Bormann enjoys himself with parties, alcohol, drugs, and prostitutes, both females and males. The workers are constantly vexed and exploited for each little whim. Life is a nightmare here, Chris. I'd gladly strangle that Bormann and then bring him back to life only to strangle him over and over again.”  
Chris didn't realize he was clutching the table with both his hands until he felt the wood give under his iron grip.  
“Many Hessians never came back from America,” Inga went on. “Those were awful years. But I never lost my hope. I knew you were too strong to be defeated. And here you are.”  
As Inga finished cooking, she called out for her husband, Benno Schuster, and their son Otto, the boy Chris had met at the gates.  
The little family started to get busy in serving Chris his dinner in the dining room, but he insisted they had dinner all together in the kitchen. He had never had such a pleasant meal in all his life. When he used to take the meals with his parents, they sat several feet apart from each other and they rarely spoke. His parents weren't exactly the affectionate mom and dad, and Chris had always been very lonely, which did no good to his psychic balance. And now, sitting with the humble Schusters at the small kitchen table, eating, drinking and chatting as if none of them had a care in the world, for the first time in his life Chris didn't feel like a monster. He felt like a child with a family that loved him.  
He knew that he could entrust his own life to those beautiful people, so he told them everything about his weird, incredible experience in Sleepy Hollow. They listened, bewitched, and gasped when he showed the thick scar on his neck.  
“I know it is hard to believe,” Chris concluded. “But Inga knows it's me, and she remembers that I have the exact same face I had when I left Hesse, in March 1776.”  
He was right. Inga knew him too well: he was definitely not raving.  
“You... you are back from the dead...” she breathed. “I knew nobody could defeat you.”  
“So there _is_ a damn Hell down there,” Benno said.  
“And witches, and angels, and demons!” said Otto, excited like a little child.  
Chris smiled at them, then he was serious again. “You have to promise me that nobody, nobody ever, must know of this. Not even the other workers. Besides, I don't know who would believe you. For the record, I am my son.”  
“I'll be decapitated and cursed for eternity if I tell a soul,” Benno said, crossing his heart.  
“I won't tell anyone,” Otto quickly added.  
“You know you can trust me,” Inga said finally.  
“Great,” Chris said. “Now, you said that Bormann will be back tonight, or tomorrow, right? Because I have a surprise for him.”  
And his eyes gleamed with murderous hunger.

***

Judge Martin Bormann came back to his new home after midnight. Ah, the old Schillers. They should have paid more attention to whom they were dealing with – and trying to screw with. Plus, it had been a blessing from Heaven that their only son Christoph had chosen to go and get killed in the New World.  
Because Martin Bormann was sure as hell that, after over twenty-three years, that sick bastard was dead. Otherwise, everything would have been extremely difficult: Christoph was damn smart, and tricking him was impossible. He would have inherited all of his folks' goodies and nobody would have been able to snatch them from him.  
Moreover, the guy was as strong as an ox, had amazing reflexes, and was incredibly skilled with every type of weapon. Bormann had seen him knock out a whole group of rogues with the only aid of a stick.  
But there was something else that Christoph had, something that Bormann had to shamefully admit he had always been scared of...  
Christoph Schiller was downright _insane_.  
Now, the sly judge didn't know why the young Schiller had appeared in his thoughts out of the blue. He didn't even know why he suddenly felt this icy stab of fear into his chest, and he didn't like it. Goddamn it, Christoph was dead! He had been for so many years! Stupid irrational fears!  
“Good evening, Herr Bormann,” came a powerful, deep, slightly raspy voice from the living room.  
Bormann winced and stepped backwards. “Who the hell is it?” he said, his voice trembling.  
“Hell, indeed. Where you belong.”  
From the living room doorway, Bormann could see a black-clad arm that ended in a masculine, alabaster hand holding a glass of wine, peeping out from behind the high-backed armchair. Then, the mysterious man drained the glass and placed it on a small table.  
“If this is some kind of a joke, you got the wrong person, fellow,” Bormann said, in a miserable attempt to sound threatening.  
Without replying, the man slowly rose from the armchair. When he faced him, Bormann felt the same stabbing into his chest he had felt earlier, only fifty times stronger.  
That couldn't be true.  
Christoph was alive. And he had not aged. There were no doubts anymore: that man was not a creature of this Earth.  
“Relax, Herr Bormann,” he said, advancing towards the judge. “I am not the one you're thinking... But I am his flesh, blood... and bad temper.”  
Bormann didn't know whether to look at the man's eyes, at his sharp teeth, or at his sword. “You're his son...”  
“Precisely. I have already sent a message to the Prince. He will enjoy your face after he sees my father's last will. But now... time for confessions.”  
Chris drew his sword and pointed it under Bormann's chin. The judge could feel the deadly metal stinging his skin. A tiny movement, and his throat would be history.  
“What did you do to the Barons?”  
“Nothing!” Bormann whined. “They died from disease!”  
Chris pressed the blade a bit deeper, and the judge felt his airpipe go tight. A rivulet of blood ran onto his white necktie. The judge burst into tears.  
“I... I had their wine poisoned. Something with a slow effect, to avoid suspicion. There, I told the truth! Please, don't kill me!”  
Chris felt the surge of power into his whole body, fueled by the judge's fear. Just a quick movement of the arm, and he would have cut Bormann in two. He started to see the familiar red screen of murderous lust before his eyes. His breathing shortened, turning into a series of low growls.  
_… stronger weapons than your sword and your axe..._  
Suddenly, Chris remembered the Angel. No. He couldn't. If he killed Bormann, blood would be on his hands again, and his soul would switch back to black. He had only one chance.  
“Stop crying, you pathetic son of a bitch,” Chris snarled. “I have already had the guards called. You'll die in prison, like a worm.”

***

_Wiesbaden  
December 8th, 1799_

_Dear Mary,_

_as promised, I am writing you from my old Hessen._  
_It felt very strange to come back here. It feels even stranger when I remember the dark state of mind I was in when I left my home to fight in America. I hope to be able to tell you about it personally, one day._  
_Upon my arrival, I was very happy to find my only friends, whom I refuse to call servants even if they work for me. I found out that my parents have been murdered twelve years ago, and that my house and my lands had been confiscated; but thanks to your precious help with the Last Will, I easily gained everything back. You were right, and your shrewdness will always surprise me._  
_For the first time, I feel responsible for my house, my lands and the people working here; only now I am seeing that my parents have committed a lot of mistakes over the years. Actually, they have made a ghastly mess, and they have paid a high price for it. And now, I must absolutely fix everything up. I have always lived confined into my mind, with the hatred I felt towards the world, the loneliness, the hypocrisy. Maybe it was the influence of that Angel, but I have opened my eyes to find out that there are people who need me; and I hope this knowledge will give a new meaning to my bloody life._  
_But, enough talking about me. Are you doing well in the old Hollow? I do not like those people, and neither do you, but knowing how resourceful you are, I should not worry enough. Whether you have decided to settle down your life there, or anywhere else, or with anybody, my offer is still standing. Should you need me, you know where to find me._

_All the best,_

_Chris_

_P.S. If that night you were looking for my forgiveness, you have it. I will not regret it._


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

_Wiesbaden, March 1800_

It had taken a considerable amount of time, patience and money, but in the end Chris had managed to wash away the trail of problems left behind by his corrupted, irresponsible parents. The late Barons Schiller had teamed up with judge Bormann and other grotesque figures of the Hessian aristocracy, at the expenses of the dozens of workers at their services – and eventually at their own expenses.  
The exploitation of those people had been downright inhuman for whole generations, and Chris was practically compelled to get to the bottom of the issue: with great horror, he found out that some of his workers were prematurely ill, some were even invalid; the long hours of hard work had not even spared children and elderly people; many women had suffered abortions and disabled children, and many others had died at childbirth. Girls, and sometimes even boys and children, were often abused by the sick landlords who dropped by, and had no courage or strength to react. All those people worked too much, ate too little and lived in terrible hygienic conditions. And, last but not least, they had been wounded in their dignity.  
Chris was furious, but also deeply ashamed: until now, everything he had been dealing with was his own sick mind, that screamed the need to unleash his inner rage against the world, while all these people, invisible despite their constant presence, were really going through Hell.  
So, Chris dedicated all of his time to a complete restoration of lands and people. First of all, he raised the workers' salaries; then, he made sure they ate properly, and had their housing cleaned and made comfortable. He forbade children, pregnant women, old and invalid people to work, providing regular medical check-ups and midwives for deliveries – after discovering that Inga had almost died when delivering Otto without any help, after a series of abortions.  
He organized a deep reclamation for his lands, rightly stating that improving the workers' quality of life would have led to a better output of their work. Some days after his arrival, he had arranged a meeting with all his workers, announcing that a radical break with the past would have taken place, and that he intended to make up for all the decades of exploitation and oppression they had suffered under his forefathers. He encouraged them to trust him, so that he could trust them.  
To the utter amazement of the workers, a whole new era started in the Schiller properties. Chris was aware that his ideas were too advanced for those times, and that he wouldn't have found any support from other German landlords; he actually was ready even to open hostilities, because he knew that in this imperfect world being different doesn't make us special, it makes us dangerous.  
Nevertheless, he didn't give a damn. He intended to move in that direction until he dropped dead once and for all.  
Now that he had started his new life in the best of ways and with the noblest actions, the only thought that clouded him was about Mary Archer.  
It had been months, and the letter he had sent her before Christmas had never gotten any reply. What happened to her? Was she in trouble perhaps? Or had she settled down in a new place and with a new man?  
And above all, why did he care?

***

“Chris, you have a visit,” came Inga's voice from the doorway to Chris's studio.  
Chris frowned. So far, he hadn't received many visits. There were less than three thousands inhabitants in the city of Wiesbaden, and the few people that had come to meet him were driven by curiosity towards the new 'mysterious dark Schiller from America'. Luckily, Chris had tried to look a bit less scary by smoothing out the points of his teeth, but the result was equally bizarre as his teeth had large gaps between each other. He had even been invited to meet the Prince of Nassau-Usingen, who, after a quick glare at his gapped teeth, had expressed genuine pleasure in making his acquaintance. Before parting, the Prince had taken him aside and advised him to have a chat with a certain Hans Schmidt, who could make a miracle for Chris's teeth.  
“Who is it?” he asked Inga.  
“You may want to see for yourself, it looks interesting,” Inga said, smiling.  
“Ah, Inga, how funny to keep me hanging, ja?” he said, smiling back. They shared a chuckle and headed for the living room.  
If someone like Inga said 'interesting', then it really was. As he entered the living room, he spotted a purple-clad feminine figure watching his sword collection; she was giving him the back, and a large, elegant hat concealed her hair.  
“Good evening, Frau...?” he said.  
As the woman turned her head and faced him with a big grin, Chris thought he was going to faint.  
“Please speak English, my Dark Avenger.”  
“Mary!”  
“In person,” she chirped, amused by his shock. “Actually, we should say in person... and a half.”  
She fully turned towards him and approached him slowly. As if the blood had suddenly been drained from his whole body and his bones had turned to dust, Chris felt the strength abandoning him.  
Because what was clearly showing on Mary Archer was a baby bump.  
“Sit down,” she said. “Get a grip and leave the passing out to people like Ichabod Crane.”  
That was a good idea, so he let himself fall on the couch, while Mary took a seat in the armchair, facing him. He couldn't get his eyes off her. His expression was similar to the one he had made when the Angel appeared before them in Hell.  
“Let's get straight to the point, Chris. Can I talk freely? Or are you with someone?”  
He answered her two questions respectively by nodding and shaking his head, without changing his shocked face. That made Mary smile.  
“The cub is yours,” she said. She sounded calm and serene. “That night in the Hollow... You were alive again, and your seed has taken hold. But before you start worrying about responsibilities, let me tell you that you have no duty towards me. You know, witchcraft and revenge aside, life has taught me the art of figuring things out on my own. I have always been independent, because I never had a choice. At first, I thought to keep this all a secret, maybe give the baby to lovely people with pure souls, and start a new life somewhere else. In the meantime,” she laughed, “I've always wanted to visit old Europe! I have even thought about moving to London, and work as a herbalist and nurse, which I can do extremely well.”  
She saw that Chris was still struggling to recover from the shock. She understood it, and tried to transmit her peacefulness to him, wishing so bad she could read his mind.  
“I could have lied to you,” she went on, her smile fading. “I could have kept you in the dark about this pregnancy, let both of us be free and live our lives. I just... felt it wasn't right. I thought you had to know. I'm still not sure if I did the right thing, but I'm definitely not up for another life built on lies. This is why I came.”  
They sat there in silence for some long, tense minutes. Two former murderers with black, merciless hearts, now worried and confused because of an unborn baby. Their baby.  
Finally, as if he had found his strength and rationality all of a sudden, Chris composed himself.  
“Nein,” he said.  
“No what?”  
“I have no intention to step back. We're going to have a child. After all I have done in these months, I won't lose my chance of redemption by disowning it. As for the two of us, we'll figure that out. I don't want to make you feel bound to me, even if conventions are strict. But the child will not suffer from a dysfunctional family.”  
Mary was impressed. That man was anything but a monster.  
“So what are you suggesting we do?”  
“First of all, I strongly recommend you have the child here in Hessen. You've been crazy enough to head out on such a long journey while being pregnant! So, now you rest. After the birth... We'll see. You may go to London, if you wish. Take the child with you if you want to raise it by yourself. But I am the father, and I intend to guarantee my support forever. Whatever you do, I will always be present for the child.”  
Mary couldn't believe her ears. She may have been a smart and resourceful woman, but he was a whole lot more than this; while Mary was used to move in the shadows, conquering what she wanted piece by piece, Chris was used to burst through the front door and fight to take it all at once. He was ready for anything in order to respect her freedom and, at the same time, be a good father. Only now she saw clearly how virtuous, how valiant this odd man was. He could face the whole world with his head held high; he may have been known as a creature from Hell, but surely his courage was that of a God.  
And this awareness tugged so violently at the strings of that stony organ beating in her chest.  
She held out her hands to him, and he took them, kneeling down before her and closing the distance between them.  
“I did the right thing. I wished to see you again anyway.”  
“I thought you had forgotten about me.”  
“How could I? You stumbled into my life when I was six, and since then, you've been a constant presence.”  
“I'm glad.”  
Mary was immediately offered a relaxing infusion and introduced to the Schusters. Inga did her best to conceal her excitement about having another woman around, and prayed the Lord to let this new female presence be better than the past ones. Then, Chris showed Mary the whole house, and let her choose the room she preferred; it wasn't that easy, as the rooms were all gorgeous. Mary was also pleasantly surprised by Inga, Benno and Otto Schuster: rather than his subordinates, they were more like Chris's family, and helped her settle in with the courtesy of good hosts rather than with the submissiveness of servants.  
When she went to bed, she couldn't believe what was happening to her. Just a few months earlier, her bloody conspiracy in Sleepy Hollow had been unmasked, throwing her into the jaws of Hell. Back then, Chris was just a gruesome entity with no name and no head.  
And now, here she was in the Horseman's Hesse, in the comfortable environment of his native house... and with his baby inside her womb. Isn't all this crazy.  
In a nearby room, Chris was thinking about the same things. If someone, back in 1779, had told him that a six-year-old orphaned girl would have caused his death and his headless resurrection to be later involved with him in a mysterious divine plot, he would have laughed wildly and then cut off that someone's head.   
And now, here he was, home again, alive... And he could no longer think of Mary as the witch who had used him. Now, he saw her as a woman who had suffered, who had caused suffering, and that was struggling to start over... with his child into her.  
A witch and a warrior, bound by black magic, blood, and murder. Now bound by a new life.


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Back when she was his mistress of evil, Mary – like everybody else – was naturally prone to connect the Hessian with Hell, with violence, with blood and with the utmost horror. Even while still human, the Hessian Horseman had been unconsciously branded as an otherworldly being, as deadly as elusive, a being without any human identity except for his Hessian origin; and not even his nationality helped give him some sort of biographical depth: for the newborn Americans, the word 'Hessian' was inextricably linked to a ferocious soldier that was paid to kill them.  
The Hessian Mary knew had always been the last concept you could connect to beauty, harmony and peace.  
She would have never expected that, actually, the Hessian's birthplace was a beautiful, prosperous town on the right bank of the Rhine river, a town that since the times of Ancient Rome had been famous for its thermal springs; generally, the style and quality of life boded what would soon become one of the most important cities in the Germanic Nations.  
And it was exactly in this healthy environment that Mary carried on her pregnancy. She made friends with some lovely German ladies, soon standing out for her _savoir-faire_ in medicinal herbs, gardening, and housekeeping. But her most precious company was at home: for the first time in her life she had found a true friend in Inga, but also in other women and girls who worked for the Schiller household; despite the times, these new, priceless acquaintances had led Mary to reconsider her ideas about lords and servants, a system that did not seem to apply at Chris's home and that, Mary suspected, would not have lasted forever anyway.  
As for Chris, he absolutely did not want to sit on his behind all the time and live off private income; so, thanks to his acquaintance with the Prince, he became a sword trainer for young men and military cadets. What he wanted to show his young pupils was not how to become killing machines, though; by helping them develop their reflexes and handle a potential tool of death, he wanted to teach self-control to the stronger ones and self-esteem to the weaker. His purpose was not so much a physical training, but rather a psychological one. This approach soon made Chris a myth: all the young male population of Wiesbaden and its area wanted to become like him.  
Although unable to avoid gossip, Mary and Chris had managed to avoid scandals by publicly pretending they were married, while actually living in the same house as friends. Their relationship was peaceful, but still quite detached, as they were mainly trying to rediscover their respective selves, after long years of damnation. Yet, they knew they could always trust each other; they knew that the baby would have always kept them bound together, in a way or another. They were looking for their own redemption, but they still did not know if and when they would look for each other's heart.

***

Chris had given a thought to the Prince's recommendation for his teeth; however, he was very surprised to find out that the Hans Schmidt he had been recommended was not a medicine doctor, nor a surgeon, and neither a magician. The man was a goldsmith. Yet, Chris was curious to see what would have happened and followed the Prince's advice.  
“Good morning, Herr. How can I help you?” Chris was greeted by a funny-looking short man with tiny round eyeglasses, wild grizzled hair and messy side whiskers.  
“Morning. Herr Hans Schmidt?”  
“The very one.”  
“Good. Uh... I've been told you can do miracles with teeth.”  
Schmidt's smile faded a bit.  
“I am a goldsmith, mein Herr. I can see if I happen to have some gold teeth.”  
Chris turned around to make sure that they were alone in the shop, then he leaned closer to Schmidt and lowered his voice.  
“Alright, maybe you cannot help me, Hans Schmidt. But surely der Hersteller can.”  
At this point, Schmidt's smile disappeared completely.  
“Who mentioned der Hersteller to you?” he asked Chris, a hint of uneasiness in his voice.  
“The Prince of Nassau-Usingen,” Chris replied. Then he let a small velvet sack full of coins fall on the counter before the goldsmith. “Now, about my teeth...?”  
“Follow me in the back.”  
It was more interesting than Chris had suspected. Hans Schmidt was secretly known as der Hersteller, the Manufacturer, because of his activities as an alchemist. However, the back room of his shop did not betray him, as it appeared as nothing more than a laboratory and storage. Chris guessed that the compromising tools, potions, metals and jewels must have been well hidden in some secret room at Schmidt's home.  
“I beg you pardon,” Chris said. “But if the Prince knows that you are an alchemist, why do you still need to hide?”  
“Eh. I may have the favors of the Prince, but not of the Church,” Schmidt said, resigned. “It is safer if I stay put. But let me see the problem. Please open up.”  
Chris did as he was told, and Schmidt examined his abused teeth.  
“Very well,” the goldsmith-alchemist said finally. “The damaged teeth that need treatment are the eight front incisors. I will take a mold of your teeth and fill in the imperfections with fragments of human teeth. In a word, reconstruction. You are too young to wear false dentures, and I do not wish to extract your teeth. The new fragments will be fastened and cemented with a special resin of my own creation. Not even a punch in the mouth will take them off.”  
Chris had to suffocate the impulse to hug Hans Schmidt. He grinned, satisfied.  
“Great.”

***

Some days later, Chris left very early in the morning, without telling anyone where he was going. He just said that he would be back in the afternoon.  
Mary hoped he hadn't gotten into trouble; but she felt very ashamed in finding herself also hoping that he wasn't seeing a woman. For goodness' sake, why did she care??  
She made herself some refreshing tea with cookies, and stared at her changing body. That same body that had suffered starvation and disease, that had then blossomed into a gorgeous, curvaceous object of the desire of many a man, that had even tasted the pains of Hell, was now carrying a new, tiny life. Her belly had swollen into a perfect ball that wasn't too big, and her breasts had grown a couple of sizes; as she couldn't absolutely wear a corset to contain them, her dresses were laced or buttoned up only in between the breasts, then they fell in large and comfortable skirts. The overall image was downright sensuous, and it didn't escape Chris's eye.  
When the door opened and Chris finally appeared, Mary felt relieved, but the surprise was still to come.  
“Oh, welcome back,” she said. “Everything alright?”  
As Chris approached her, she caught herself again searching for feminine perfume or other similar traces. Dammit.  
“Ja,” he said. “Do I look different?”  
Mary intensified her inspection, but Chris was always the same old Hessian Horseman.  
“Now that you tell me, there must be something different,” she insinuated.  
Chris couldn't hold it back anymore and grinned like a mischievous kid.  
“Your teeth!” Mary exclaimed.  
The notorious, bloodcurdling sharp fangs that had contributed to making the Hessian's appearance so scary had been restored into normal, beautiful, healthy white teeth. They still had tiny little gaps, but she guessed that they must have been part of his original jaws, because they fit his peculiar look so well. Now, his smile was definitely more human than demonic.  
“How did you...” she started to say, but he gently put a finger on her lips.  
“An alchemist, secretly recommended by the Prince,” he said. “How's the cub?”  
“It's fine,” Mary said, smiling. “Sometimes it moves, and it feels so strange... But I like it.”  
Chris looked at her belly without touching it. He had never touched it and she had never invited him to do so. Mary noticed that his eyes darkened and his restored smile faded.  
She put her hand under his chin and lifted up his gaze.  
“Whatever it is, if you want to talk about it, I'm here.”  
Mary removed her hand and Chris looked away, outside the window, at the setting sun. After all, he himself had stated in the letter that he wished to tell her someday. About him. About his darkest part.  
She sat down on the soft dining room chair. Chris walked to the window, keeping his gaze outside.  
“As you know, my parents were rich. Franz and Fredrica. Chic people with filthy souls. They had just me, and were satisfied enough to have born a male. I was raised in wealth, but not so much in affection, especially after they found out that I wasn't exactly the young lord they wished. I was shy, silent, gloomy, bad-tempered, but sincere. All I saw around me was what I hated the most: hypocrisy. I was an open book, surrounded by people who spent most of their lives practicing how to lie in the best ways. I soon became prone to sadism. But unlike most people with this attitude, I didn't pick on animals: I picked on people. While everyone tried to screw with others from behind their backs, I wanted to face them, hurt them openly. Of course, I did not have many friends. My only friends were Inga, some other workers, and my weapons. Friendship is not to be taken for granted in the world of aristocracy. ”  
Mary knew those feelings. Power, hypocrisy, lies. So many lies. She had to use those same weapons in order to defeat her enemies. Turn their tools against them. Until there was no distinction between right or wrong anymore.  
“When I was twenty,” Chris went on, “my parents arranged a marriage with a girl I didn't know. I complained, but it was no use. My father tried to cheer me up by saying that I could always have all the women I wanted even if I was married. He was sickening, and I told him so in his face. However, against our expectations, when I met my future bride for the first time, we liked each other. The girl was very pretty, her name was Julia. I guessed she must have felt the same way I felt, going to marry a perfect stranger. Instead, she smiled up at me. I began to think that maybe things would have taken a better turn in my life. I married Julia, only to find out that she was superficial, submissive with me and unpleasant to the workers. A typical aristocrat, wearing the occasional mask. But what I didn't know was that Julia had really fallen in love with me, and was trying hard to be a better person for me to like her. Under the shallowness and false decorum she had been taught for all her life, she was very sensitive and a lover of arts. Deep inside, she was similar to me, only less strong and too insecure to be straightforward. Inga told me all these things because she spent a lot of time with Julia; I actually noticed it myself, but I was too secluded into my own darkening mind to care. I had too much hate built up. Then, one day Julia told me she was pregnant; I didn't take it well, I didn't feel ready to be a father. Not in that world, not me. Julia was not used to vent, to let her feelings out; young aristocratic girls must always be compliant and obedient to their husbands. Even if they are sick bastards. Suffering in silence like a good wife soon led her to a nervous breakdown; one night, she fainted on the staircase, fell, and broke her neck, dying with our unborn child.”  
With her eyes full of tears, Mary instinctively placed her hands over her belly. Now everything was clear. That was why Chris was so determined to give this child his own life, if necessary.  
“I had just lost my only chance of happiness... And it was all my fault,” he said, his voice full of sorrow. “I could have loved Julia. She had tried her best to please me, to even earn a smile from me, and I screwed everything up. A life of loneliness and hypocrisy had just reached the bottom with heartbreak and guilt. All this mess I had inside me soon gave way to uncontrollable rage and bloodlust. I didn't want to hurt anymore: I wanted to kill. I lost the little respect I felt towards human life, and I wanted to see it fly away, in a scream, in a gurgle of blood, in a slice of my sword. The occasion arose when the English government started hiring Hessian mercenaries to send off to America. I didn't even bother to understand which side was right to me; all I cared for was killing blindly. I was resolute to stand out from other Hessians in uniform, appearance, and above all fierceness. The rest... is contemporary history.”  
He sighed. Mary got up, went near him, and gently took his hand.   
“Do you know what was my last thought before my head was cut off?” he said, squeezing her hand. “I thought that, after all, only Death could have given me peace. The Angel referred to Death as the Dark Sootheress, remember? I think it really can be.”  
“There will never be a remedy for what I have done to you,” she said, overwhelmed by guilt. “You were right: you had nothing to do with my problems. Instead, I took your life.”  
He turned to face her with a sad smile. “You did. But, despite everything, I'm grateful to you: if you hadn't summoned me from the grave, I wouldn't have stood a chance against Hell. Now we both have a chance.”  
They weren't born monsters; they were made monsters by society and its absurd dynamics. Their paths had crossed in the most unbelievable way, beyond time and space. Europe and America, a grown-up soldier and a little girl, Hell and Earth. They had crossed paths into a mythical dimension.


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

The gentle, pleasant evening breeze of August was a joy for the senses. Chris was having his usual walk in the large, luxuriant backyard, occasionally looking up at the starry sky and spotting a shooting star. He remembered the fiery sky of Hell, and wondered whether that sphere of unreachable jewels above him was Heaven or something real and worldly, belonging to Nature. Because his experience as a ghost had taught him that the borders between this world and the others can be very, very blurry. The only constant in his strange journey had been Mary, and he couldn't help turning his thoughts to that unique woman; beautiful, smart, independent, and at the same time extremely fragile and sensitive... Mary was everything, a prism of different lights under a deadly shell she had created to safeguard herself for all her life. And now, that shell was coming off.  
Chris walked back towards his residence. The windows had been opened to air the beautiful house; the wide veranda overlooking the backyard had been lit up with scented torches, creating a magical, romantic effect. Lounging on the small couch and enjoying the night air, Mary caressed her nine-month belly, humming a lullaby; she knew it didn't make any sense, but nothing that had happened to her had ever really made sense. This made her smile, but the conflicting feelings that were successfully destroying the hard stone of hate in her heart resulted in tears welling up in her eyes. She continued humming, and let the tears fall silently: she would have never, ever, abandoned this baby, until she lived, and even after that, she would have been its invisible guardian.  
 _...the most beautiful of diamonds is found buried and encrusted into the roughest stone..._  
That was it? Was the baby an essential part of this strange plot from Heaven? Was it a means or an end? She was still not sure; and at the moment she didn't really care. Her only concerns were for the baby... and for the man that had unknowingly given it life inside of her.  
Chris heard Mary's sweet humming, and slowly headed for the veranda. Mary's cheeks were streaked with tears, but her face was peaceful; her ash blonde hair was completely loose, and with her ivory skin and white nightdress, she looked like a fairy from the moon.  
His heart was racing when she looked up at him and smiled between tears. She held out her hand at him, and when he took it, she drew him to the space next to her. He tried to keep his breathing steady when she placed his hand on her swollen belly, gently pressing it on one side: a twitch immediately responded. The former demonic Hessian Horseman, perhaps the deadliest man in the world, had to gather all his courage to bend over Mary and rest his head on her belly, as if trying to hear the baby's voice coming from a prenatal dimension.   
There was no need for words. Words could not convey the emotions they were feeling. She was still holding Chris's hand on her side, and let her free hand run through his soft, silky hair, her white fingers disappearing into his black strands, like a dove and a crow entwining the feathers of their wings. Chris slowly got up to face her; his hand traveled from her belly up to her face, and their lips met. There was nothing of the last, bloody kiss that had almost ripped her mouth off, months before, in the Hollow; this one was long, slow, sensual, _hot_ with love. Neither of them had experienced such a thing before, and both wondered how the hell had they lived without.  
“Ich liebe dich, witch,” Chris whispered, words burning. “I love you like crazy.”  
“I really hope you mean it, demon,” she replied, smiling against his lips, “because I love you too.”  
They spent the night together in the master bedroom, telling each other everything that had to be told with kisses, until they fell asleep in each other's arms, legs entwined, former black hearts become one.

***

Mary and Chris had a private wedding just a few days later, with the Schuster family as the witnesses. For both, it was the second time at the altar, but the first and only marriage of love. He wore black, she wore white. A crow and a dove. The new moon and the full moon. Whatever they did, they would always have this otherworldly aura to them.

Thousands of miles away, in New York City, Katrina Crane went into labor two weeks earlier than expected; but the baby boy she gave birth to, Timothy John Crane, was healthy and beautiful. For once, Ichabod Crane seemed to forget about passing out, for he was too busy admiring the miracle he and Katrina had just made.

***

Two nights after their marriage, a groan followed by a gasp woke Chris up. Next to him, Mary's eyes were wide open, and her breathing was heavy. It didn't take a genius to see that she was in labor.  
“Scheiβe!” he snarled. “I'll get Inga and the doctor.”  
Less than a minute later, Inga appeared at Mary's side and cupped her face. “Shh, calm down now, my dear,” she said sweetly. “Let's see.”  
Inga lifted up Mary's gown and removed her silk underwear: it was still dry, indicating that Mary's waters had not broken yet, but the dilation was already wide; Inga barely had the time to put thick sheets under Mary, that the waters gushed out. They were clear, which was a good sign of health. The labor had started.  
Chris went so pale that it looked like he would soon become transparent.  
“Chris,” Inga said. “It's better if you wait outside. This might take a while.”  
Chris nodded slowly, then he bent over Mary. “I'm going to wait outside, meine Liebe. Be strong, and call me if you want me here.”  
“I'll do my best... Ow!... My Dark... Avenger,” she said. They kissed, then Chris exited the bedroom, joining Benno and Otto in the corridor. The doctor soon came to assist Mary.  
The labor lasted all night and part of the following morning. It was painful. Sheer pain. Mary felt like being in an empty space, alone with the pain, and her only weapon to fight it was the breathing; Inga and the doctor had instructed her on how to breathe properly, and it definitely helped. She felt her body being smashed, tortured, torn apart; but paradoxically, all this pain intensified her love for the baby. It was like two loving hands held together, tightening their grip onto each other before letting go.  
At around nine in the morning, Mary was exhausted and had lost a lot of blood. She had faced the long hours of labor with her usual self-control, trying her best to avoid screaming, and now her head felt light with semi-unconsciousness. Her sight blurred, and strange spots appeared, changed and disappeared before her eyes. Inga kept encouraging her to push, vigorously massaging her thighs.  
Suddenly, the room faded away. A large black spot appeared from nowhere; it slowly took shape... Two huge black wings... Lush black hair, surrounding a stark white visage... A feminine figure... Blood red lips smiling at her, with no trace of evil.  
Oh no...  
The Dark Sootheress. _Death_.  
She spoke, her voice a wonderful choir of mezzosopranos. “Don't let go. One push more. The Sibyl is coming.”  
And she disappeared in a black, sparkly cloud.  
In a split second, Mary wondered: Am I going to die? Is my baby going to die? Are we both going to die? This was the plan? A horrible punishment?  
Pain and fear merged. Mary shut her eyes and screamed her lungs out, finally pushing the baby out of her body. Then, the pain was gone.  
She opened her eyes...  
And there she was.  
A healthy, perfect baby girl, filling the air with her first screams.  
Mary laughed and cried at the same time. Inga cleaned her up and changed the bedsheets, while the doctor cleaned up and examined the baby, then he gave Mary some instructions about the post-partum and left.   
Chris was called in, and melted at the sight of the baby girl cradled in her mother's arms. Inga hugged and congratulated him, then Chris and Mary were left alone.  
Even after a long, excruciating childbirth, Mary looked ethereal and serene. Chris sat beside her on the bed. The demon and the witch, come back from Hell with the arcane warning of a massive twist in their lives. The twist lay between them, wrapped in a puffy white diaper and a light peach-pink sheet.   
Both the pain and the Dark Sootheress had been immediately forgotten, replaced by love and adoration for the baby. But for a second, Mary recalled some words from the back of her mind, curiously unable to remember who had uttered them.  
 _The Sibyl is coming._  
The diamond encrusted in the rough stone.  
The baby girl was called Sibyl Julia Schiller.


End file.
